#if you send anything my way please let me know!!!!

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[bonus-links]

IMMA BE THE FIRST TO ASK (I HOPE) CUZ IM LITERALLY CHOMPING AT THE BIT DIRECTORS COMMENTARY PLEASE

GANON??? THE EYES???? BANGER UPDATE 👹

the people have spoken and they want director's commentary (this isn't even all of them lol) OKAY HERE WE GO

the original draft of this scene was much shorter, and Loft actually didn't say anything at all in it. As I kept making the chapter it started to feel weird that he would just. Let Ganondorf say his piece without contributing anything. i like this version of the scene much better

listen. I love WW Ganondorf. He's my favorite Ganondorf. I was going to find a way to fit him into this chapter no matter what

in particular, I love that you get a sense from WW Ganondorf that he is, on some level, sympathetic to Link. Or if not sympathetic, understanding of his place in all this. He tells Link that his gods have abandoned him, that he has not particular quarrel with him, etc. But ultimately it doesn't matter. If this is who the gods have sent to stand in his way, so be it. Essentially, it's not my fault the gods are so callous as to send a child after me.

we're going w the canon that WW Ganondorf is the same as OOT, or at least remembers being him. Don't ask me how. Nintendo doesn't know either

big ol eyeball. which could mean nothing

How does Ganondorf recognize Loft? by that stupid hat. jokes aside he doesn't know Which Link Specifically Loft is, but he's smart enough to figure out that he's a hero of some sort.

Likewise, Loft is smart enough to figure it out as well. He's spent a lot of his chapter thinking about Ganondorf, and if you'll recall from Ch1, he knows from Zelda that Ganon once had a mortal form. I think, from Loft's perspective, he has a hunch that this Ganon figure is the mortal reincarnation of Demise, the way Zelda is the mortal reincarnation of Hylia. I wanna emphasize that's what HE thinks might be going on based on his experiences. He's not the knower of all things. He has a conspiracy board in his mind

the face of a guy who's like. I am not going to be lectured to about morality from the King of Evil. I was very excited to let Loft be snarky at long last. But he also, notably, doesn't push back against what Ganondorf is saying that hard. He doesn't even say that he's wrong, just implies that he's probably a hypocrite. In fact, a lot of this update is about what Loft DOESN'T say or acknowledge

Ganondorf's opening line is about how much he hates that statue of the hero of time, because it's "such grandeur for a mere child". I think he means that at face value, but he's also making another point— the hero of time was a child, but they're not going to depict him that way in his monument. It's honestly sort of ambiguous with the actual model because of ww's style, but it looks like adult proportions to me. The story Wake grew up with calls him a child, but his monument in the castle is of an adult. That was the idea behind this set of panels, the parts of the Hero of Time's story that aren't going to be put on the pedestal

speaking of that I realized making this update that I literally. forgot the pedestal. I just didn't draw it all this time. in my defense the castle in no clip looks like this. no statue or pedestal

except I recently found out by accident that he's literally. under the floor. what the fuck

ANYWAY. I really liked the symmetry of Ganondorf turing to stone at the end of the dream. He won't get any perfect monuments made to him. Also, looks like there's a suspicious lack of water in the underwater castle. which could mean nothing

I'm not gonna comment too much on other details, because i've got to keep some of my secrets. I do think that this update gives a lot away HAHA though that was kind of on purpose. We're entering year 3 of this comic and we're finally starting to get places lolol

WAIT I ALMOST FORGOT loft looks the same way he did when he last touched the triforce

and we've seen a border similar to this before haven't we

that's all i got for now, thanks everybody! im having a blast reading ur comments <3

[godricgryffinsnore]

I HAVE ANOTHER REQUEST FOR YOUUUU IF YOU FEEL SO INCLINED 🥰

i’m imagining bestfriend!remus x reader paired together in potions brewing amortentia. and reader is internally like, oh that’s funny it kinda smells like him. omg wait no it REALLY smells like him. and she has this whole silent epiphany that it’s always been remus

and remus is standing right there, maybe having the same realization in his own mind

up to you if you wanna write a confession scene too!! i’ll devour anything you post 🩷🩷

It's Always Been You ♡ : A Remus Lupin Fan Fiction.

pairing : Remus Lupin x bestfriend!reader

summary : A slow-burn, best-friends-to-lovers tale where a simple potions class reveals long-buried feelings, leaving two hearts fumbling through confusion, warmth, and the undeniable pull of something that’s always been there.

warnings : Extreme fluff, Best friends-to-lovers tension, soft, tender confession, shy, vulnerable Remus. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

Word Count : 2k

main master list <3

della's note : I think I got a little carried away while writing, cause this request really made me imagine the soft banter and shy Remus things. I loved writing for this, you know? Again, I really hope this reaches your expectations, Sunny. You are an angel. Thank you for sending me this request, beautiful. @sunflowersonatas

banner : @anitalenia and @roseschoices

The dungeon is heavy with steam and candlelight, the golden glow smearing over the stone walls in syrupy ribbons. The cauldrons bubble lazily, swirling with pale lilac and silver, exhaling slow plumes of fragrant steam. The faint clatter of glass and mortar hums in the background, but you barely hear it over the dull roar in your ears.

Because your potion smells like Remus. And it’s really starting to freak you out.

At first, it’s nothing more than a brush of familiarity—a vague scent clinging faintly to the rising mist. Something warm and faintly sweet. Familiar, but not immediately recognizable.

You lean over the cauldron slightly, inhaling again.

And this time, it hits you square in the chest.

Wool scarves and firewood. The faint trace of chocolate he always carries in his pocket. The sharp, smoky sweetness of clove lingering on his cardigan. The paper-and-ink scent of the library corner he always claims.

Oh. Oh, Merlin. You stir the cauldron again, blinking rapidly.

Your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. No. No, no, no.

Because surely this is a coincidence. A fluke. Surely amortentia isn’t sitting here, mocking you with the exact scent of your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were practically children. The one whose worn-out jumpers you’ve stolen without thinking twice. The one whose voice is stitched into the fabric of your every memory.

You glance at him, pulse stuttering violently. And then you see it.

The faint crease between his brows. The subtle parting of his lips. The way his hands have completely stilled around the mortar. His knuckles flex once, then twice, gripping the stone edge a little too tightly.

Oh, Merlin. He smells you too.

His eyes are wide, a little frantic, his jaw slackened with dawning realization. His breath leaves him in a faint, uneven exhale, eyes flickering uncertainly between you and the cauldron.

Neither of you move.

You are absolutely going to throw up.

Your heart slams so violently against your ribs you’re almost certain the entire classroom can hear it. You stare at him, mortified, blinking like you might somehow wake yourself from this slow-motion nightmare.

Remus stares back.

And then— Because the universe is cruel and spiteful— Your professor’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Lovely work, you two,” Slughorn beams fondly, leaning over your cauldron. “Such a perfect shade of pearl—textbook, really. Five points to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Keep it up.”

He wanders off without another word, and you and Remus remain exactly as you are: paralyzed, stiff as corpses, faces slightly flushed, and looking very much like you’ve both been slapped with a Beater’s bat.

You exhale sharply, finally breaking the stare, trying to focus on your hands.

Which is, apparently, the exact moment Sirius Black and James Potter decide to materialize at your table.

Sirius appears first, leaning his entire weight over Remus’s shoulder, nearly sending him face-first into the cauldron. “Fancy that,” he drawls, dramatically squinting into the shimmering steam. “If my nose isn’t mistaken—which, let’s be honest, it never is—this rather smells like the entire essence of Lupin himself.”

Remus shoots him a look of absolute, bone-deep betrayal.

James, not to be outdone, slides in beside you, draping an arm over your shoulder like he’s known you for a decade longer than he actually has. “Fascinating,” he muses, inhaling deeply with exaggerated theatrics. “I dunno, Pads, but I’m getting a whiff of something quite reminiscent of our Moony. Could be my imagination. But—” he inhales again, obnoxiously loud, “—nope. Definitely smells like our dear Remus. Weird.”

You gape at him, scandalized. “Potter.”

“Moony,” Sirius grins, leaning heavily into Remus, who is now pale and glaring daggers into the middle distance, clearly rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment. “You wouldn’t happen to have been brewing a love potion with your favorite person in the entire world, would you? Surely not.”

James makes a mock gasp, gripping your shoulder with faux devastation. “Merlin’s beard. Do you think—? No. No, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “There’s simply no way that the two of you have been pining like lovesick, moronic sheep for years, only to have this very public, very embarrassing epiphany during a school-sanctioned activity. Right?”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

You shove James off your shoulder, your face practically molten. “Get out.”

“Now, now.” Sirius raises both hands, grinning wolfishly. “I’m just saying—this is awfully convenient. Almost like it’s been... planned.” His grin widens, sharp and dangerous, eyes glinting. “Planned, James.”

You blink. Remus blinks.

And then it hits you.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Remus says flatly, voice low with warning.

James and Sirius exchange a slow, self-satisfied look. “Oh, we did,” James confirms.

You stare at them, blinking dumbly. “You—you had a bet?”

Sirius clutches his chest dramatically, grinning like a madman. “Oh, darling, not just a bet. The bet.” He levels you both with a self-satisfied smirk. “Fifty galleons. That’s how long we’ve been watching you two idiots make heart-eyes at each other from across the common room.”

Remus lets out a soft, strangled noise of betrayal. “Fifty?”

James shrugs, far too smug. “To be fair, Peter thought it would happen last Christmas, so he’s out.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

Sirius claps Remus on the back with far too much force, nearly sending him into you. “Cheer up, Moony. You finally got the girl. And you won us fifty galleons.”

“Fifty galleons I fully intend to spend on chocolate,” James adds, glancing at Remus with mock pity. “Sorry, mate. You were the last to know.”

Remus mutters something incoherent beneath his breath and promptly drops his forehead onto your shoulder, grumbling softly into the fabric of your robe.

And you—because you love him, because you always have—simply grin into his hair, fingers softly threading through it, quietly grateful that, for once, they were right.

── .✦

The dungeon is still thick with steam and the faint, honeyed glow of candlelight when Sirius and James finally make their grand exit, cackling like lunatics and loudly debating which Honeydukes chocolate is worthy of their newly won fifty galleons.

They leave the two of you behind—flushed, mortified, and still reeling.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The dungeon hums faintly around you—the bubbling of forgotten cauldrons, the distant scrape of chairs, the murmur of students packing up their things. It all feels muffled somehow—far away and unimportant.

Because he’s still holding your hand. And you’re still holding his.

His fingers are warm and slightly calloused, trembling faintly where they’re laced between yours. You feel his thumb—slow, barely perceptible—brush ever so lightly along the inside of your wrist.

And you know he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You glance at him cautiously. His eyes are fixed somewhere on the table, pointedly not looking at you. His face is flushed, faint pink crawling steadily over his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears. His throat works around a faint swallow.

You exhale softly, your voice barely above a murmur. “Remus.”

His eyes snap up at the sound of his name. And oh.

The moment your gaze meets his, something in your chest caves violently.

Because his eyes—those soft, golden eyes—are wide and unguarded, darkened slightly with something tender and unfamiliar, something almost fragile. His lashes flutter slightly, gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes like he’s already memorizing the distance.

He looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

And suddenly, you don’t think you can breathe properly.

His lips part slightly, but he says nothing at first—his throat bobbing with an uneven swallow. When he speaks, his voice is low and unsteady, a little breathless, as though he’s only just found it.

“I, um…” He clears his throat softly, but it doesn’t help. His voice is still rough, still trembling faintly. His eyes flicker to where your hands are still laced, then back to your face, and he lets out a weak, breathless laugh. “I—I’m, um. Not very good at this, you know.”

You watch him—his eyes so unsure, so vulnerable—as though he’s bracing for you to step back. As though he’s already preparing himself for the possibility that you might let go.

You tighten your grip instead.

His lips part slightly at the gesture, eyes flashing briefly with something startled—something helpless and adoring. His breath catches.

And then, in a voice so soft and hesitant you almost miss it, he murmurs, “But it’s always been you.”

Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward, his hand tightening faintly around yours like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. His voice is barely a breath.

“I—I didn’t even know when it started.” He lets out a faint, shaky laugh—wet and self-conscious. “Maybe it was the first time you fell asleep on my shoulder in the library. Or—or when you hexed that Slytherin who called me a monster in third year.” His lips twitch faintly, voice softening. “Or maybe it was the time you made me that ridiculous scarf for Christmas—the one with the crooked stitches that you insisted was ‘fashionably uneven.’”

You let out a breathless laugh, your eyes burning with warmth.

His fingers tighten faintly around yours, trembling slightly. His eyes—soft and uncertain and so very full—lift slowly to yours, his voice dropping to nothing more than a whisper.

“But I know now.” His throat works faintly, voice hoarse. “I know because—because it hurts to look at you sometimes. Like—like it’s too much. Like you’re sunlight and I can’t stop staring, even when it burns.”

Your chest constricts violently.

His voice shakes slightly when he exhales. “And I—I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend.” His lips twitch faintly, but the smile is weak—sad around the edges. “And I was terrified. Terrified that if you knew—if you ever knew—it would ruin everything.”

He exhales shakily, voice so soft it’s almost pleading. “But I can’t—” His breath catches. “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Your lips part slightly, your breath stalling, but he keeps going—because he has to—because if he doesn’t get it out now, he’s afraid he never will.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly on the words, raw and breathless. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before fluttering open again—vulnerable and wide, searching yours. “I love you. I—I think I’ve loved you forever.”

You stare at him—his wide, trembling eyes, the faint flush blooming high on his cheekbones, the subtle, terrified way his fingers tighten around yours—and you wonder how you ever thought he was anything less than devastating.

Your breath catches violently in your throat. And then, you kiss him.

You lean forward suddenly—without thinking, without breathing—and press your lips to his, desperate and unsteady and so terribly sure.

He makes a faint, startled sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, almost a gasp—but then he’s kissing you back with everything he has, hands coming up to cradle your face, trembling and reverent.

His lips are warm and gentle, tasting faintly of chocolate, moving against yours like he’s afraid to break you. You feel his hand trembling faintly against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with unbearable gentleness.

And when you finally break apart, you’re both breathless—foreheads pressed together, chests heaving faintly.

You blink at him, eyes glassy with warmth. “You’re such an idiot,” you whisper softly, breathless and laughing.

His lips twitch faintly, breath escaping in a trembling laugh. “I know.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, brushing your nose against his, your eyes still half-lidded and glowing with warmth. “I love you too, you absolute idiot.”

And oh— The way he breaks at your words.

His eyes flutter shut, breath hitching audibly, and he exhales faintly against your mouth, voice cracking softly when he whispers, “You do?”

You nod, laughing faintly, your fingers threading softly through his hair. “Always,” you murmur. “Always.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s slow and lingering, sweeter than anything you’ve ever known. His hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile and holy—something he intends to hold forever.

And in that moment, you know— You always have.

[rafessecret]

⋆˚࿔ his¡angel reader && rafe cameron

RUINING YOURSELF FOR HIM.

You don’t want to do this. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But Rafe is staring at you, eyes dark, hungry, as he leans back against the headboard, lazily stroking himself. He looks so pretty like this—shirtless, his golden skin glowing under the soft light, his sculpted chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. He’s so effortlessly dominant, like he owns the space around him, like he owns you.

Maybe he does.

Rafe was never the type to let go of something that belonged to him. Especially not you. It’s been months since you broke up, months of ignoring his calls, blocking his number, pretending like he isn’t still living under your skin. But he never stopped watching, never stopped wanting. He knows you. Knows that if he just keeps pushing, you’ll fold. You always do.

Tonight is proof of that.

He smirks, tilting his head. ❝Don’t be shy, angel. You can hump it just like you would my cock.❞

Your cheeks burn, shame curling in your stomach. You’re already kneeling on the bed, the pillow positioned between your thighs, but you can’t make yourself move.

Rafe sighs, pretending to be patient, but you see the tension in his jaw, the way his grip tightens around his cock, knuckles going white. He wants this. Needs it. And you? You need to stop pretending you don’t love giving him what he wants.

You shift slightly, pressing down against the pillow, gasping at the friction. Your panties are already soaked, sticking to you, and the pressure against your clit makes your head spin.

Rafe groans, low and deep. ❝Good girl. Keep going.❞

Your fingers twist in the sheets as you grind against the soft fabric, slow at first, testing. The pleasure is instant, warm, and pulsing, spreading through your body in slow waves. Your hips rock forward again, pressing down harder, and a quiet whimper escapes you.

Rafe chuckles, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. ❝Look at you, baby. Already so desperate. Just needed something to rub that pretty little pussy on, huh?❞

You bite your lip, embarrassed, but it only fuels him. His strokes quicken, his chest rising and falling heavier as he watches you roll your hips, chasing more, the pressure building so easily, so fast.

❝Tell me how it feels.❞ His voice is pure sin, low and commanding. You shake your head, whimpering, too shy to admit how good it is, how badly you need this. But Rafe isn’t patient. He reaches forward, grabbing your chin, forcing you to look at him. His grip is firm, just enough to remind you that you belong to him.

❝Say it.❞ His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, teasing, but his eyes are anything but soft. They burn with ownership, with control. ❝Or I stop watching.❞

Panic flares in your chest. ❝It—❞ You swallow, voice barely a whisper. ❝It feels good.❞

Rafe smirks, smug, satisfied, but he doesn’t let go. ❝Keep going, then. Show me how you fuck yourself when I’m not here.❞ The humiliation only makes the pleasure sharper, hotter. You rock your hips faster, rolling them in slow, deliberate movements, dragging your clit against the fabric, gasping as pleasure sparks up your spine.

Rafe groans, his eyes never leaving you. ❝That’s it, baby. Fucking soak it. Make a mess for me.❞

You’re whining now, panting, the tension coiling tighter in your stomach. The pillow is damp beneath you, slick with your arousal, and every grind sends another wave of heat crashing through you. It’s too much. Not enough.

❝Please,❞ you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for. Rafe hums, tilting his head. ❝Please, what? You want to cum?❞

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as you chase the edge, needing it so badly you’re trembling.

But Rafe tuts, sitting up, gripping your hips to still you. ❝Not yet.❞ You whimper, shaking, desperate for release. ❝Rafe—❞

❝Shh, angel. Be good for me.❞

He leans forward, lips ghosting over your throat, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slide up your waist, slow and possessive, his fingers trailing under your shirt, gripping your tits, pinching your sensitive nipples until you gasp.

❝Keep going,❞ he murmurs against your ear. ❝I want you right on the edge. Want you fucking ruined for me.❞ You let out a broken moan, obeying him, grinding faster, harder, so close you can’t breathe. Your body is wound so tight you feel like you might snap apart.

❝That’s it, baby.❞ Rafe growls, his hand slipping between your thighs, rubbing messy circles over your clit, adding just enough pressure to send you over. ❝Cum for me. Show me who you fucking belong to.❞

The orgasm crashes into you so hard it steals the air from your lungs. Your vision whites out, body seizing, trembling as pleasure wracks through you in waves, leaving you gasping, wrecked.

And Rafe watches, fucking stroking himself as you shatter for him, groaning as he pumps his cock faster, his other hand fisting the sheets as he loses himself in the way you break apart under his control. And when you cut hard—hips jolting from overstimulation, voice breaking into little sobs—he does too, spilling over his fist, breathing your name like a fucking prayer.

Because you’ll never get enough of him.

Because you belong to him.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : First piece I’m posting for them… no pressure, right? lol. But honestly, I loved writing this—Rafe being his usual possessive, manipulative self, making sure she knows exactly who she belongs to. Hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think, and maybe I’ll be convinced to ruin her even more next time. Also reading this theme on light mode is so much better.

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[unnamednarrator]

hey! about the fluffy dialogue prompts: number 3!!! <3

bet you guys thought i’d forgotten about this! turns out my week off was busier than i normally am at my actual job 💀 also sotr came out so we had to emotional deal/not deal with THAT. anyway, we’re back to semi-regularly scheduled programming!

3. “How come you always end up under my blanket?”

The first time Peeta and I slept in the same bed again, it was the autumn after the war. He’d said something about needing to wear his warmer jacket when he walked back home and it made me say, ‘Don’t do that.’

‘What?’ he’d asked, brows drawn together by a small line on his forehead. His jacket halfway up his arms.

‘Don’t go back,’ I’d said. And when he didn’t say something for a minute, I added, ‘Please.’

‘Okay,’ he’d said, hanging jacket back on its hook and walking towards me. Drawing me into his arms. ‘I won’t.’

After that, he only went back to carry his things over to my house and I went with him. Just a few things at a time. Clothes, baking utensils, art supplies. Eventually, all his things became lost between mine. We’d forgotten to assign different drawers in the bedroom and cabinets in the bathroom to our separate items. Now my socks can only be found in the folds of Peeta’s sweaters, or his gentle hand soap behind the vast selection of shampoos that Flavius left behind one time.

The only thing we don’t share is a blanket. This is at Peeta’s insistence. He said it was easier for him to get up in the middle of the night if he didn’t need to extricate himself from my limbs. Apparently, I’m an “exceptionally prime hogger”. The ridiculousness of that epithet is the only thing that kept me from being angry at him about this setting this rule.

But he must know, and not really care, that I’m terrible at sticking to rules. Because when I wake up, my paisley fleece blanket is nowhere to be found and I’m caught between Peeta’s arm and torso, entirely under his cotton duvet. This is nothing new; usually I’m able to retrieve my blanket before Peeta starts to stir. But when I look up at him this time, he’s peering at me with humour in his eyes, a twist on the corner of his lips.

‘How come you always end up under my blanket?’

I humph, annoyed at being caught out, I guess. But even more so, annoyed that he didn’t say anything before.

‘It’s nicer here,’ I say, burying my face into the warm space between his shoulder and neck. He never smells so wonderful as he does in the mornings. It’s like the blanket has captured his very essence and I’m allowed to inhale him in his most concentrated form.

‘It’s nicer to have you here,’ he agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. ‘Tell you what, let’s not start separately from now on.’

‘It was a stupid rule, anyway,’ I mumble into his skin.

Peeta snorts, hugging me tighter towards him. ‘We’ll make better rules from now on, okay?’

‘First one is that you’re not allowed to leave,’ I say, pressing a kiss to his neck and leaning back to see him again.

He’s smiling in that way that makes the prospect of the darker days of winter feel more bearable. He’s the only person who smiles like that.

He catches some baby hairs by my ear and tucks them behind the shell. ‘Lucky for you, that’s a rule I won’t break.’

‘Very lucky for me,’ I say, before leaning forward to kiss him.

send me a number from this prompt list and i’ll write an everlark ficlet!

[joffyworld]

The First Annual JoffyDay™ Contest!

Good evening! Good morrow! Beautiful people gather round! The time for the first ever Annual (hopefully) Joffy Day Contest is here at last! Is it a little late? Yes! Sorry about that, Joffy got the flu!

Anyway, below will be the rules, the prompt and the prizes on offer! If you are interested and wish to participate, please send a DM so I know roughly how many participants there will be! Thank you!

Without further ado:

The Prompt - "Growth"

Whilst villages grow from small tents to stone roofs and empires grow from small townships to eventually span continents, we grow as people from our youths until our inevitable collective demise. The story of life can be told in one's growth, but so too can the story of death. Time is ever-moving, and with it so too shall the vines of nature one day overgrow the busywork of mankind, such as did the sands of time bury the works of Ozymandias.

Growth is change, naturally. Or is it?

The Rules

Schedule and Dates!

No NSFW work!

The contest will be running from the moment this post goes live (26th of March) until the 2nd of April. The final decision on the winners will be announced on the 7th of April, to allow for any problems or troubles in deciding!

Theme!

For this contest, given the origin of this account, I've decided to run with a Cult of the Lamb theme! The works submitted will have to have a COTL setting, with the piece taking place in the COTL universe. However! Alternate takes on COTL such as AU's and HC's are more than welcome, and the piece does not necessarily have to include any Cult of the Lamb characters. As long as the overarching story involves COTL in some way, anything is fair game!

Light gore and violence are fine, just none of the "fun stuff" please! I'd like to keep this competition accessible for all.

Shorter the Better!

I'll be honest and say I struggle to read longer pieces, so as the judge I politely ask for quality over quantity here. The piece should be written as a one-shot, try to go for maximum punch in the fewest words! This is supposed to be fun however, so I won't set a specific word count, just have fun and keep it in mind!

Format!

Any format is fine! Poetry, prose, writing, anything goes! I would, of course, prefer poetry as it's my main wheelhouse but there won't be any extra "points" or anything added for it. Try something new! Expand your horizons! Or stick to what you know, your choice!

Judging!

Judging will be solely performed by me, Joffy! However, in the rare event I struggle to choose between a pair of written pieces, the tiebreaker will be decided by my fellow Joffys over at @joffycourt! This shouldn't be a problem, but that is the contingency plan!

And now, the (hopefully) exciting part!

The Prizes!

1st Place - £15 (or the equivalent in local currency)

2nd Place - £10

3rd Place - £5

Per Participant - £1 to Charity (Max £20)

Payments can be given via KoFi or PayPal! In the event you don't have the means to receive the payments, just let me know by DM how you would like the payment in the event you place in a cash prize placement and I'll do what I can! If you for whatever reason are completely unable to receive the payment, the money will instead be donated to a charity of your choice!

Furthermore, for every participant there will be £1 pledged and donated to a charity as voted on by the public! I'll do some research and come up with 3 or so vetted options that the public will then vote on via poll! Sadly, for now the maximum I'll be able to pledge from this is £20, as I am not a very wealthy man.

...And that's all!

Thank you to everyone who joins or even considers joining! It's been a wonder getting to know you all and it'll be nice to be able to give back in a small way! I know the prizes aren't much, but hopefully in the future this will only continue to grow.

Thank you everyone again, you're all angels,

The Original Joffy™

[littleprincesschen]

Break your mind by overstimulation. Leave you tied to a chair with a vibrator secured between your legs and a headset repeating the phrase “I will obey” over and over.

In the morning I check on you.

You’re slumped over as much as the ropes allow. A sheen of sweat covers your body. I get close enough so I can hear hear you whisper “I will obey”

I pull your head up with a handful of hair. Your eyes glassy and unfocused. I ask you directly, “Are you ready to submit?”

“Yes, I will obey. Anything. Please, anything. I can’t…I can’t….I….Ohhhhhhh God I’m cumming!!!”

Your hips buck wildly as another orgasm just melts your mind even more.

Fuck that sounds so hot. I need this for real. Thank you <3 Maybe I'll just do it to myself and have you in mind <3 Any tasks for me? Send them my way anon or not anon and I will let you know how it felt and what it did with/to me <3

[monbebe-weenee]

A/N: This is my first fanfiction so please be gentle with me 😭😭😭 This is based off of a dream I had like two months ago and it took me a century to write LMFAO

18+ MINORS DNI 🔞

NOT PROOFREAD

Synopsis: Jongho is angry with reader because reader disobeyed him

SMUT AND TWS/CWS BELOW THE CUT

Mean Dom!Jongho x sub! GNAFAB!reader x Big Dick Yunho

TWS/CWS: smut with little to no plot, angry rough dom Jongho, big dick Yunho, no protection (please don’t do that practice safe sex), established poly relationship, degradation, spanking, brief mention of reader going into sub space, safe word mentioned (but not reader using it just saying it to let Jongho know they remember it), orgasm denial, creampie (if I missed anything please feel free to let me know)

Jongho was angry with you. You were usually so good for him and he rarely had to even redirect you. But today was different. You were so horny, that despite him telling you multiple times to be still and have patience, it was useless. After the upteenth time of him telling you to stop trying to rush him, he’d had enough. He pulled out of you altogether, ignoring your whines of disappointment, and got up off the bed.

“Get dressed,” He snapped, giving you a dark look you had never received from him before. “Only obedient cumsluts get to orgasm. We can try again tomorrow when you’ve learned to mind your manners, y/n.”

Tears in your eyes, you got up and obediently dressed yourself, knowing begging or talking back was pointless as it would only anger him further. Sniffling, you let out a meek apology for upsetting him, leading him to ghost a kiss on your cheek, silently reassuring you that he still loved you, and with that you left his room, still throbbing from your need.

You weren’t sure what got into you, as you’d never acted this way before, and guilt clung to your chest as you made your way to the living room where the other members, your other partners, were all watching a movie. Finding a space next to Yunho, you sat down, leaning into his side. He instinctively wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side and wrapping the both of you in the blanket he had in his lap. Giving him a soft smile, you turned your attention to what they were watching, some action movie that was so far in the middle of it, that you had no way of even guessing the plot.

You tried to focus on anything else except for the intense heat growing between your legs, but then Yunho sneakily ran his hand up your bare leg, placing them on your thigh and squeezing them teasingly, causing you to let out a shaky breath. You glanced at him and he gave you a cocky grin, before standing up, and dragging you along with him.

You followed him eagerly, thankful that you’d finally get your needs met, too horny to even question if this applied to Jongho’s punishment. As soon as the two of you entered his bedroom, and the door shut behind him, his lips were on yours, trailing kisses down your jaw and neck, before finding your sweet spot and sucking on it and nibbling a bit.

“Fuck baby,” he growled in your ear breathily, sending a shiver down your spine, as his hands squeezed your hips. He led you backwards towards his bed, tossing you down gently before climbing on top of you. “I want you so bad.”

Letting out a soft whimper, you wrapped your arms around his neck, as he crashed his lips to yours once more, kissing you deeply. He ground his hips against yours, his usual self control out the window, instead replaced by this starving desperate man ready to fulfill your every desire and ruin you.

He stripped your tee shirt and pajama shorts off, leaving you bare beneath him and wasting no time on shoving your nipple into his mouth, pinching the other one with his fingers and rolling it, while switching back and forth between the two. He slowly trailed kisses down your body, causing you to let out breathy moans. Once he reached down to where you needed him the most and saw that you were already soaked and prepped, he let out a deep growl, like nothing you’d ever heard escape him before and looked up at you, his eyes black with lust.

“I’ve never seen you this wet for me when I haven’t even touched you yet,” kissing just below your belly button, he sucked on the skin just a bit before standing up and stripping off his sweat pants and shirt quickly, tossing them to the side. His dick stood at attention, somehow harder than you’d ever seen it before, the tip red and dripping with pre cum. He climbed back over you, kissing you deeply before lining himself up with your entrance. You were so grateful for the fact that you didn’t even need to be prepped extensively like you usually did in order to take him in. He still thrusted in slowly, giving you time to adjust, letting out a broken groan at the feeling of your walls squeezing him. “Fuck, y/n, you feel so good.”

After you signaled that it was okay for him to move, he wasted no time. Every thrust in hit your sweet spot so perfectly and you became a moaning mess under him, not even caring if your other partners could hear how good he was making you feel. That ended up being a mistake. You were too consumed in the pleasure, that you didn’t even realize that Jongho had entered until you felt the bed dip next to you, and came face to face with your angry dom, glaring you down.

“So you just really hate following directions today, don’t you,” he asked, his voice dripping with venom. “Do my orders mean nothing to you anymore?”

You shook your head quickly, opening your mouth to let out some pathetic apology, as Yunho slowed to a stop in confusion. Jongho glared pointedly at him.

“Speed up and don’t stop until you cum,” Jongho commands, his voice leaving no room for protest from Yunho. Jongho turned to make eye contact with you, his piercing gaze causing you to look away shyly, even as you felt your walls clench tighter around Yunho, making him groan and pound into you even harder. Jongho grabbed your chin roughly, forcing you to look up at him.

“You don’t get to cum,” he growled, moving even closer, so your lips were centimeters apart. “If you decide not to listen this time, I promise things will be so much worse for you.”

You could feel the fog of subspace settling over you quickly with his words, swallowing thickly and nodding to confirm that you heard him. His face softened long enough to look deep into your eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort or fear.

“Do you remember your safe word, baby doll?” He spoke softly, temporarily turning off the rough switch so you knew you were safe and could back out at any time.

“Yes, Sir,” you responded immediately, not wanting him to worry. “Red.”

Nodding, he offered a soft smile. “Good job, baby.”

He repositioned you and Yunho, having you on your hands and knees, while Yunho drilled into you from behind. Jongho sat up, periodically smacking your ass hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to actually hurt you.

“Are you really this much of a slut, huh,” he asked, his voice darker than you’d ever heard it before. “You had to go running to Yunho because you couldn’t take your punishment? I thought I trained you better than that, but I guess you really don’t like to listen, huh, baby?”

Tears streamed down your face, as you focused all of your attention on trying not to orgasm, your body rushing closer and closer to the edge despite yourself. You were a moaning mess between his filthy degrading words and Yunho’s thrusts hitting the spot that made your eyes roll back.

You didn’t think you could hold back much longer no matter how hard you tried and you gave Jongho an apologetic look, guilt ripping through you as you tried to contain your climax, not wanting to disobey him.

You tried opening your mouth, warning him that you couldn’t take anymore, but before you could get another word out, Yunho gave one final thrust behind you, cumming inside of you, and pressing his hips as far into you as they would go, stopping his movements with a groan.

You cried out at the feeling of him filling you up, your body shaking, and you would have collapsed under him if Jongho hadn’t reached out and placed his hands on your cheeks, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs, smiling sweetly down at you.

“Good job, baby,” he cooed, pressing soft kisses to your forehead and nose. “See? There’s my good sub.”

After a minute, you felt Yunho pull out of you, and you whimpered softly about the emptiness, but didn’t say a word. You heard him climb off the bed, and a few seconds later you felt him return, carefully cleaning you up with a soft damp rag, avoiding touching your clit at all to your relief.

After he was done, Jongho held his arms out for you and you crawled towards him, cuddling up against his side. He pulled you close, helping you lay down, and peppered your cheeks and forehead with gentle pecks, before kissing your lips softly, with so much love and passion it made your heart hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears springing in your eyes. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you.”

“Shh,” he whispered back, placing his palm on your cheek and stroking it with his thumb, wiping away the tears before they could spill. “I can never stay mad at you, baby. You did so good. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you replied, smiling up at him.

Yunho came and joined the two of you in the bed, laying on your other side and curling up into your back, wrapping his arm around your waist and kissing the top of your head and side of your cheek that he could reach softly.

“Thank you for trusting me to continue,” he spoke softly, his voice soothing after such an intense session. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you,” you replied, relaxing in between your two boyfriends contentedly.

[chrystal-ink]

Shadow x GN reader

All cramped up

Shadow finds the one thing he can’t fix for you

Warnings: reader is on period, severe menstrual cramps, mentions of nausea, hurt/comfort

Note: so a fun (not really) fact about me is I suffer from debilitating menstrual cramps to the point where I can (very rarely) lose my ability to stand so this is based off of that

“I’m sorry honey I can’t go out tonight I’m not feeling well”

As you sent the text you felt a wave of guilt and frustration wash over you. Once again your body had decided to ruin plans and upend your life and for what?

The scraping in your lower abdomen continued as you waited for the ibuprofen to kick in you waited a half an hour, then an hour still nothing.

You clutched the heating pad close hoping it could soothe the cramp that you so desperately needed relief from. not caring weather or not it was starting to burn, so far it was the only kind of relief you could feel.

Just then you heard a knock at the door. You were too tired to move so you figured you could ignore it. let whoever was on the other side think you weren’t home , but then they knocked again.

Your phone chimed a text from Shadow appearing on the screen.

“Let me in I’m here to take care of you”

You heaved a sigh you should have known that he would be coming, he wasn’t going to let you suffer alone, even if he didn’t quite know that you weren’t suffering from any illness rather a particularly cruel joke from Mother Nature.

steeling yourself you got up from your couch making your way over to the door each step more taxing than the last. eventually you made it to your door.

❤️

Shadow stood patiently at your door anxiety flooding through his system, he hated when you got sick. he always made sure to do everything in his power in order to get you healthy again and today was no different, or so he thought.

You opened the door greeting him with a soft "Hey".

much to his surprise you looked just fine, no apparent signs of any fever, no runny nose or sore throat. aside from looking a bit tired you seemed just fine.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Yah, I just don't feel like I can go out tonight."

"Are you sick? when was the last time you took any medicine?"

"Well I took some ibuprofen about an hour ago, but I'm not exactly sick."

"what do you mean?"

"Well I- it's sorta like." you seemed hesitant to answer like you were embarrassed or ashamed of what the problem was. he waited for you to continue.

but before you could give any proper answer you collapsed to the ground.

❤️

the sharp pain took your breath away like you had just been impaled the pain from your uterus now radiating through your spine forcing you to double over in pain. a bout of nausea twisted your stomach as you began to shake.

Gentle hands caught you as he called out your name panic laced throughout his voice. "Are you alright? what's going on? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?"

"No, it's alright." you stated trying to clam his nerves. "trust me the hospital won't do anything."

"Why not? You're clearly suffering with something."

"Yes and that thing is having a uterus. I'm on my period." You explained through groans. "and I just so happen to suffer with really bad cramps. the most a doctor will do is send me home with some pain killers, which I already have, and tell me to do the same things I've been doing since this whole stupid thing started."

Shadow stared at you not really sure on how to proceed.

You sighed "Can we please move over to the couch I really don't want to have this conversation on the floor."

"Of course, can you stand?"

you began to rise carefully halfway up you felt a twinge of pain letting out a cry as you retreated to your previous position.

"Here let me help you." He scooped you up in his arms carrying you over to the couch.

as he carried you over you couldn't help but feel guilty. not only did you ruin his night but you caused him serious worry over you and now you were making him take care of you.

as Shadow gingerly placed you on the sofa all the frustration and guilt bubbled to the surface, tears began streaming down your face soft sobs escaping your mouth.

"I hate this" you started. "people have been doing this every day for thousands of years. going to work, living their lives, and I can't even stand up. I’m so sorry I really didn’t want to ruin your night, you already do so much for me and now this. I feel so pathetic.” Another wave of pain shot through you making you wince “I just want tit to stop”

Shadow just stared at you for a moment unsure of what to do. He’s never seen you like this and it scared him. He’s seen you fight off plenty of foes, seen you sustain many injuries that you simply walked off. He never expected to see you brought down, and by your own body nonetheless.

Questions formed in his head unsure of how to ask them. Did this happen every time? How come he hasn’t seen this yet? How could he fix this?

The last question rang in his head the loudest. Memories of his past flashed through his mind, his purpose what he was created for. Was this another failure for him? Was there truly nothing he could do for you? The only thing he could do right now was watch you while you succumbed to your pain.

He had to do something but what?

Taking a breath he helped you lay down on the couch. He rested his hand on your shoulder in a gentle voice he said “it’s alright my love, just give me a minute.” He turned on your favorite show hoping it could distract you in his absence.

Exiting your apartment he called the only person he could think of.

“Hey handsome, what’s going on?”

“Rouge, it’s Y/N. I need your help” Shadow explained the situation he confessed he was in over his head and didn’t know how to proceed.

“Oh, the poor thing” Rouge commented “Alright big guy here’s what you do.”

❤️

Shadow had been gone for thirty minutes now. You felt horrible thinking you must have scared him off.

You should have explained your situation earlier before all of this happened. You thought you were getting better, your past few cycles had been manageable. You should have known better than to think the problem would go away on its own.

The next time you saw Shadow what was that going to be like. Did he think you were weak now? Did he pity you? You couldn’t stand the thought of shadow looking down on you.

Before you could spiral Shadow came through the door shopping bags in one hand and take out in the other.

He unloaded the contents of the bags onto the coffee table. Pulling out your favorite snacks and candies one by one. He brought a tub of ice cream to the freezer presumably for later. Coming back with some silverware he handed you the takeout.

“Here, I don’t know if you’ve eaten today so I got your favorite. If you don’t want it I also got some ingredients to make your favorite comfort food as well.” He pulled out a plushie in your favorite color and placed it in your arms.

“What’s this?” You asked the question being more rhetorical than anything.

“I don’t particularly enjoy them but I know you like your plush toys, you don’t already have that one do you?”

“No” you gave him a weak smile as you hugged your new squishy friend “thank you”

Shadow kissed you on the forehead climbing behind you on the couch wrapping you in his arms and pulling you close to him.

“Where does it hurt?”

You guided his hand to your lower abdomen resting on the source “Right there”

Shadow delicately worked his hands on the area giving it a gentle massage, untying some of the knots left behind by your uncaring reproductive system.

“Does this help at all?”

“Actually yes, it does, a little”

“Good” he continued his gentle movements. “ I want you to know that I take care of you because I want to, you’re not a burden to me and I never want you to feel like you are. If you’re in pain let me know I won’t think any less of you for it. You are such a strong and amazing person you don’t have to hide your struggles from me.”

“Okay, I promise I’ll tell you next time”

You felt some of the tension in his body melt as you snuggled further into his arms.

“I heard that new movie you wanted to see is streaming now do you want to watch it?”

You nodded

As the movie began to play you began to feel more at ease some of the pain finally slipping away disappearing into nothingness.

“Shadow”

“Yes?”

“Thank you”

“Of course my love, anytime.”

[scenemoheartzz]

⚠️IMPORTANT POST. PLEASE READ AND REBLOG IF YOU SEE THIS.⚠️

I don’t get into my personal life on this app a lot, but I’m in desperate need of financial help and none of my commission posts have been doing well. this post will have mentions of abuse but nothing too in-depth and it will be mostly emotional abuse mentioned anyway. please read this post all the way through if you can, I would very much appreciate it.

I am currently in a bad situation at home. I’m a teenager who is unable to get a job and I live with my unstable mom and sister who are extremely abusive (mostly emotionally) and we’re in a financial situation which can leave us without food on occasion. I’m unable to get a job to earn money because my mom will not let me get one. why? I don’t know. but if I don’t have money, I can’t move out like I plan to.

my plan is to gain enough money to hold me over until I’m legally able to move in with either my dad or a friend of mine, and the. from there I can get a job and be financially okay. but the problem is that I have a good few years before I can do that. so I need to have money in my savings and I need to be making it consistently. I have friends who are helping me out, but there’s only so much they can do, and I feel bad enough accepting their help in general.

now, you might be thinking - how can I help? well, I have art commissions for sale, and I’m willing to do almost anything (that isn’t nsfw, gore, proship etc) for the prices listed on my ko-fi below (along with some examples of my art):

I also take donations through ko-fi, or you can even send me direct donations through my paypal (which if you choose to do this, please DM me for my paypal info. I can’t post it publicly)

if you can’t buy from me, don’t worry! reblogging this post can help me so so so much. but remember, reblogs > likes. likes don’t do anything for me.

anybody who read this post and/or considered commissioning me, thank you so much and have a good rest of your day. <3

[softietrait]

sim request that goes Both Ways,,,

hi simblr friends!! i'm looking to not only fill my save i'm working on but to help fill your saves with sims you may want or need for your gameplay's! so:

i'm taking sim requests both from you guys and also asking for sims of yours to put in my game. ♡ details below!!!

────୨ৎ────

to request a sim from me, send me an ask (or submission) with:

- age of sim - human or occult (keep in mind, i don't make occult sims often, but i will definitely try my best!) - skin, eye & hair colors - skin details such as freckles, scars, moles, etc. amount of cc you'd prefer or if you'd like none at all, please make sure to let me know! at base, cc will be limited to hair and skin details. - if you'd like more than one sim, please keep it a minimum of 3-4 and make sure to tell me what type of family dynamics you'd like (i.e. roommates, family, etc.) - anything else you'd like to add/can think of!

as for making sims for me, anything goes. families: keep to a minimum of a household of 4. occults are okay. i'd really prefer limited cc and maxis match if possible. if you use alpha cc, please keep that limited to hair and clothing! <3

thanks in advance if you end up requesting and/or make sims for me!! mwah! ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

[thelastdeadgirl]

this is a strange ahh ask but do you have any alan munson hcs? there’s literally almost nothing about him on the internet and i need to be fed DESPERATELY.

OFC!!!! you asked the right person because i bloody love mr alan munson- as a longtime eddie/munsons stan... i know a painful amount about the munson family, also i apologize this will be more yapping than headcannons i think! also guys...please send me questions i beg

let me just start this with the fact i adore the way alan is portrayed in tfs, because it is so different from how we are shown in him in the other media. firstly, the book flight of icarus paints him as such an asshole and that really pisses me off because- that is not the same guy who was method acting in 1959, and secondly the fact eddie in the show says he taught him how to hotwire a car- no way that man was allowed on the roads. just look at him.

i think his portrayal in tfs as it is so different from that, but so similar to the way his son acts- like c'mon we all saw alan hit the eddie munson devil pose, no matter how painful it was to watch. lowkey got me thinking something insane must have happened during alan becoming an adult.

MAYBE he also applied to drama school like joyce did, but he got rejected, which was a harsh ass blow and made him realize he would also be stuck in hawkins, also considering his brother probably worked at the power plant already at that point, he did not wanna end up like that.

sigh i hope we get more alan stuff in the broadway production, he is by far one of my fave characters and the fact he is like besties with joyce? i love that!

anyway time for silly hcs:

-he is a stanislavsky FREAK. alan's read all the books, anything he can get his hands on, he wants to be the next big thing in acting

-yknow how wayne collects mugs on his wall and there is also a few baseball caps- i have a sneaky feeling the caps are alans

-was a black sabbath fan since day ONE. cmon, ofc he's gonna like classic rock!

-defo a bowie fan too (obviously these two artists were AFTER tfs)

-went around trying to sell tickets year after year to school shows and hounded people to auditon

-vocal rest icon, gets joyce to tell the teachers when hes 'saving his voice'

-learnt french because he thought it made him seem cooler

-can't ride a bike for shit

-is dracula for halloween every single year

-orders crazy amount of popcorn at the cinema

-got bit by prancer once.

-argues with the younger years when they try to take the piss out of him

-has insane beef with walter

[gravity-between-us]

Gravity Between Us

Chapter 5: Lagrange Point

Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try. Pairing: Female MC x Caleb Rating: Explicit 18+ Spoiler Alert: Potential spoilers for Caleb's Myth as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers. Warnings: Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic (I cannot bring myself to break any of their hearts, so you could consider this an AU with only Caleb in this timeline.) MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times. Slow Burn. Explicit Smut (eventually). Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour. Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals. Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship. Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions. More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

It has been weeks since Caleb dropped me off in Linkon. We haven’t spoken in all that time. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking—except for when I thought he was dead. 

That silence had been different, sharp-edged and suffocating, filled with grief so deep it had nearly swallowed me whole. This silence is something else. It gnaws at me in quieter ways, settling into the spaces between my ribs like an ache I can’t quite shake.

Every now and then, I find myself typing out a message. I miss you. Just that, simple and honest. Other times, my fingers hover over something more dangerous. 

I love you.

It doesn’t feel the same as the easy, innocent I love yous from before, the ones that had always been woven into our friendship. This is heavier, deeper—like an ocean I’m too afraid to step into.

Each time, I stare at the words until they blur, then delete them before I can make the mistake of sending them. I push my phone away as if distance alone can keep me from wanting to reach for him. If Caleb wanted to talk to me, he would have.

I tell myself that. Over and over.

Instead of dwelling on it, I throw myself into the one thing I can control: the search.

My fingers move swiftly across the keyboard at the Hunter’s Association, combing through every database I have access to, scouring for anything that resembles the technology I saw in that room. I have been at this since I got back, hunting for answers like a starving thing, refusing to let the trail go cold.

If Caleb won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out on my own.

Whatever he’s gotten himself into, I have a feeling EVER is involved. The thought sits in my gut like lead. I know Caleb well enough to be certain of one thing: he doesn’t bend. He won’t be bullied or manipulated into something he doesn’t want to do—unless it has to do with me.

He has always protected me, even at his own peril. I press my lips together, the familiar weight of guilt settling over me.

I pray he didn’t put himself in danger for me, but I already know my prayers are useless.

The Association’s archives are vast, but they yield nothing useful. No matches, no leads, just an endless loop of dead ends. Frustrated, I’ve taken my search beyond the Association, visiting every technology store in Linkon, sketchbook in hand, showing a rough drawing of what I saw.

The responses are always the same—confusion, skepticism. Even the shop owners in the city’s most prestigious tech hubs look at me like I’m asking them to build me a time machine.

Like I’ve drawn something straight out of a sci-fi flick.

Like I’m chasing something that doesn’t exist.

But I know what I saw, and I know Caleb is tangled in it. 

I am going to find out why.

“Inara?”

Tara’s voice cuts through my frustration, and I spin in my chair to see her standing there, clutching a thick folder of files.

“Hi, Tara,” I greet, forcing my voice into something light, pretending I have more energy than I do. “How are you today?”

“Oh! Good, thank you.” She smiles and settles into the chair beside me, her expression warm but tinged with caution. “I cross-referenced those drawings you gave me and did a deep dive through all known technology in our records. I couldn’t find anything that resembled the image.”

My stomach sinks. I already expected that answer, but hearing it out loud solidifies my frustration. If the Association doesn’t have it, if even the high-end tech shops don’t recognize it, then what the hell was that thing?

Tara must see the disappointment on my face because she quickly glances around before lowering the files into my hands. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I did dig a little deeper on my own time.” 

She winks, and I catch her meaning immediately. She has connections outside the Association—ones with impressive skills. The kind of skills that can unearth things that aren’t meant to be found.

“I can’t exactly tell you how accurate this information is,” she continues, “but there were some interesting findings.” Before I can flip open the files, she grabs my arm, her grip firm. “But promise me, you won’t go looking for this stuff alone.”

I meet her gaze, wide and earnest, and force a reassuring smile. “Of course not.”

The lie comes too easily.

Tara exhales, her shoulders dropping slightly, but she doesn’t look convinced. “I mean it, Inara. Whatever this is, someone really doesn’t want it found. I had to go through some—” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, “—unusual channels to get this, and even then, the info was buried.”

I finally open the file, my pulse kicking up at the grainy, black-and-white image clipped to the first page. The resolution is terrible, but the structure—the shape—of the device is unmistakable.

“There’s no official record of this tech anywhere,” Tara murmurs. “No company, no patent, no manufacturer tied to it. It was scrubbed from every known database. The only reason I even found this is because my friend knows how to dig through layers of digital footprints that shouldn’t exist.”

I run my fingers over the image as if touching it will make it more real. “Where was this taken?”

Tara hesitates. “That’s the other thing. The metadata was wiped, but my friend was able to recover just enough to get a general location.” She points to some coordinates—longitude and latitude.

Tara must see the gears turning in my head because she leans in, her expression fierce. “Don’t go looking for this. Someone went through a lot of trouble to bury this. If you go poking around, they’ll know.”

I hold her gaze, forcing sincerity into my tone. “I won’t go alone.”

Tara narrows her eyes. “That’s not the same as not going at all.”

“I know,” I say simply, and that’s all the truth I’m willing to offer.

I grip the file tighter. It is dangerous, but it’s also my only lead.

And I’m done waiting for answers.

After work, I throw myself onto the couch, files spread out in front of me, phone balanced on one knee as I punch in the coordinates Tara found. The location is hours outside of Linkon. 

The satellite image shows nothing but an unbroken stretch of dense forest—no roads, no buildings, no signs of life. I zoom in, scrolling the map, scanning for anything that doesn’t belong. A structure hidden under the canopy, a clearing too clean-cut to be natural—something.

There’s nothing, which only makes me more suspicious.

There’s only one way to get answers. If I leave now, I won’t make it until after dark. A smarter, more cautious version of me might think twice about trekking into an uncharted forest alone at night. 

But I am this me, and this me says fuck it and laughs in the face of danger.

I swap my clothes for something darker, something easy to move in. Strapping my firearms to my thighs, I double-check the charge, grab a flashlight, and throw some essentials into a bag—wire cutters, extra batteries, a knife. 

As I head for my car, I pull up Caleb’s contact, thumb hovering over the screen.

Old habits die hard.

Every time I went off on one of my so-called "adventures," I let him know. If he wasn’t coming with me, he would at least know where to find me. And most of the time? He would find me—be there before I even arrived, waiting in the shadows with that exasperated look, like he couldn't believe I was making him do this again.

Even when he was at the academy, he somehow found a way.

I sigh, locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I can’t risk him trying to stop me.

The drive takes three hours, the city lights fading into nothing, swallowed by the blackened countryside. By the time my GPS announces my arrival, I am parked on the side of an empty road, staring out at an endless sea of trees.

It’s exactly as the map said.

Nothing.

I don’t buy it. Killing the engine, I grab my bag and step out, wading into the forest.

In the city, even at night, there’s always some source of light—street lamps buzzing, neon signs flickering, headlights cutting through the streets. Out here, there is nothing but the stars blinking through the slivers of sky between the canopy.

The trees stretch high above, their silhouettes jagged against the night, branches shifting like skeletal fingers. The only sounds are the distant chirps of insects and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

I move carefully, searching for any sign of disturbance. At first, everything looks untouched, just another stretch of wilderness. As I trudge deeper, I spot something carved into the bark of a tree. The marking is deep, etched with purpose. Not initials, not some random graffiti—this was placed here deliberately.

I scan the area, eyes sweeping the trunks around me. More of them, spaced apart, barely visible in the darkness.

A path.

I follow.

The deeper I go, the stranger things become. I nearly miss the first piece of debris, half-buried under a thick layer of leaves—a slab of stone, rough-edged, the corner of what could be a broken wall. Further ahead, another piece. A fragment of a statue, the details eroded beyond recognition.

Something was here. Something old.

A chill creeps up my spine when I step on something that does not feel like dirt. Beneath my boot, the ground gives just slightly, with the unmistakable hollow sound of something beneath the earth.

I kneel, brushing away the layers of dirt and leaves. It takes time—whatever is beneath has been buried for years, decades maybe—but eventually, I uncover the edge of something metal.

A hatch. I curl my fingers around the handle and pull, but it doesn’t budge.

Locked.

I draw my gun, pressing the barrel to the rusted lock and fire. The sound is deafening in the stillness, shattering the quiet. I fire again, again, until finally—crack—the lock gives.

Grabbing the handle, I pull the hatch open. A rush of stale air escapes, swollen with the scent of damp earth and rust.

I aim my flashlight down. A metal ladder descends into the dark. I holster my gun, and without hesitation, I begin to climb.

The ladder is cold beneath my fingers, slick with condensation. I bite down on the flashlight, jaw aching as I keep the beam steady, but the darkness still presses in on all sides, writhing just beyond the reach of the light. My descent feels endless. The shaft swallows the sound of my boots against the rungs, muffling it, but the echoes still roll up like distant thunder.

I hate thunder.

It rattles my ribs, reminds me of a Wanderer’s roar and of the explosion. The force of it, the way the ground shook, the way I was thrown back, ears ringing, lungs burning.

The bottom comes suddenly, my boot hitting solid ground with a dull thud. I pull the flashlight from my mouth and sweep it ahead. A short tunnel stretches forward, reinforced walls eaten by rust, the metal streaked and pitted.

Water drips from the ceiling, pooling in uneven patches along the floor. Vines dangle from above, curling around corroded pipes. The whole place looks like it was left to rot decades ago.

At the end of the tunnel, a door looms, barely clinging to its hinges. The metal is warped, caved inward—someone tried to blast through it. I push my shoulder against it, but it doesn’t move. The only way through is the gap near the bottom.

I crouch, pressing my stomach to the wet floor, and crawl between the twisted metal. My shoulders scrape against the jagged edges as I squeeze through, but finally, I spill out onto the other side.

The corridor beyond is vast.

I stand slowly, sweeping my flashlight across the space. The moment I move, sensors flicker to life—ancient and struggling to function. Overhead, long-dead lights sputter, coughing out pale, sickly light in erratic bursts, illuminating the hallway in flashes like lightning.

The corridor stretches far in both directions, lined with heavy-duty doors. Some are numbered. Others aren’t. All of them are reinforced with thick metal bolts securing them in place. A keypad lock sits beside each one, grime crusted into the seams.

I press my fingers to one of the reinforced windows, swiping away a layer of filth, but the glass is thick, the room beyond drowned in shadows. Nothing moves inside. If there’s anything in there at all, it’s long since succumbed to the dark.

I keep moving. Most of the doors are locked, but then—I come across one that isn’t.

I push it open cautiously, stepping inside. The room is small. A bed is bolted to the floor, rusted restraints hanging from its sides—thick, industrial, meant to hold someone down.

The walls are covered in scratches, deep and erratic. Tally marks. Hundreds of them, carved into the surface with something sharp. Here and there, the scratches look like they could be letters, maybe words, but they’re too worn to read.

Something about this place…

I stare at the bed. The restraints. The scratches.

My fingers trail over the marks in the wall, and my stomach twists. I know this place, but how could I?

I turn sharply and leave the room behind. I don’t hesitate as I move through the corridors, taking turns like I already know where they lead. Left. Right. Another left. The choices feel automatic, as if my body is acting before I can think, pulling me deeper.

After one last right, I come to a halt. The hallway opens into something completely wrong.

A playground.

The floor is fake grass, still green beneath the film of dust and grime. A mural is painted on the far wall—a bright blue sky with puffy white clouds, cartoonish and artificial. A single swing hangs from rusted chains, swaying slightly in the still air. A slide. Monkey bars.

My breath catches as I step forward, my pulse pounding. I can almost hear it—the sound of breathless laughter. My own voice, small and delighted—Push me higher, Caleb! His answering laugh as we ran, as we chased each other.

But those aren’t my memories.

Are they?

I shake my head hard, dragging myself back to the present. Focus. I'm here for something real—something that ties Caleb to that room, to whatever this place was. Not to linger in some forgotten playground built to keep children pacified.

Turning away, I step over fallen beams and squeeze through collapsed hallways where the ceiling has given way. Some stretches are so tight I have to slither through, my body scraping against rusted metal and cracked concrete.

Water drips constantly, a steady plink plink plink in the distance. Pipes groan somewhere deep within the facility, shifting as though something unseen still stirs within the walls. The sounds coil in the dark, twisting into something just shy of mechanical breathing.

Eventually, I find a staircase leading downward with an old, dust-caked sign hanging above the entryway, the lettering still visible beneath the grime: Laboratory, Testing Facilities, and Medical Sciences.

The metal stairs are slick with moss and algae. Some are bent inward, warped from age or heat. Others are missing chunks entirely, making my descent slow. Debris from the ceiling litters the steps—broken panels, fallen wires, the skeletal remains of a ventilation duct twisted like a ribcage.

The air down here is worse. Thick. Rancid. The hallways are barely passable.

Some sections are so cluttered with collapsed beams, overturned filing cabinets, and discarded machinery that I have to climb my way over. Other parts force me to crouch low, slipping between the wreckage like I’m worming my way through a collapsed tunnel.

I check every room I pass, but most are useless. Storage closets filled with shattered glass and rusted tools. Offices where papers dissolve to nothing the second I touch them, the ink bled away years ago.

Then I find something different. A room unlike the others.

Concrete walls, bare. No peeling paint. No broken desks. Just two large chairs, bolted to the floor. Thick leather straps hang limply from the armrests and footrests—restraints. The kind meant to keep someone completely still.

Strange machinery is hooked up to each chair—monitors, tubes, old mechanical arms ending in sharp-tipped instruments. I don’t recognize half of it.

I run my fingers over the nearest chair, and my whole body shudders. Dread wells up so violently, I have to pull my hand away. My chest tightens. Panic claws at my throat, though I don’t know why.

Another door stands just off to the side of this room. It’s slightly ajar, wedged in place by fallen debris. I press a hand against it, testing the weight. It doesn’t budge. I set my shoulder against it and push harder.

Still nothing.

Teeth gritted, I shove with everything I have, my boots slipping against the damp floor as I force my way through the narrow crack. The metal groans in protest, giving just enough for me to squeeze inside—

My foot catches on something, and I hit the ground hard, my flashlight flung from my grip. It crashes against the floor, spinning, the beam whipping wildly before finally settling—

Right on a skeleton.

I freeze.

The remains sit slumped in the corner, still clad in an old, tattered lab coat. The skull is caved in. Several bones appear cracked, broken, like whatever killed this person hadn’t stopped at just one blow.

Swallowing hard, I crawl forward and reach for the ID badge still clipped to the coat.

Dr. Xander Voss Chief Medical Officer and Researcher for Technological Advancement

Voss? Like the woman who approached me at the Fleet’s party? Could there be a connection there? I pocket it.

When I finally look around the room, I realize I’ve found something. The space is filled with mechanical parts. Eyes. Hands. Feet. Prosthetics, but—more intricate. More advanced. 

Some still gleam under the flashlight’s beam, untouched by rust, while others have been reduced to skeletal frames and parts.

Against the far wall sits a machine. It’s similar to the one in Caleb’s secret room, but older. Less sleek. More exposed wires, more tangled cables. A cruder version of something far more advanced.

I lift my wrist, activating my Hunter’s watch. The scan flickers, then gives me a carbon date—

That can’t be right.

The range is impossible. It dates back to an era when this kind of technology shouldn’t have existed, stretching all the way to a thousand years into the future.

I frown, scanning the machine for a model number, a manufacturer,anything that might clarify its origins.

Nothing.

I move to the robotic parts instead, picking up cogs, wires, fuses, intricate pieces I don’t even recognize.

No serial numbers. No tags. No stamps.

Who built this?

And when?

Thank you for all your support, and I hope everyone is still enjoying!

[fanfics4all]

Fragments

Request: Yes / No  Hi hermione anon.Can I change it to ne without the prompt and hermuone and sister with the sister struggling post battle of hogwarts? Anon

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Hermione Granger x Younger Sister!Reader 

Word count: 905

Warnings: Y/N struggling after the battle of Hogwarts

Y/N: Your Name 

PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK, I WORK HARD ON MY FICS AND IT’S NOT COOL TO STEAL SOMEONE ELSE’S WORK! 

If you want to be on the tag list for anything (My series fics, specific character fics, or just all of them) All you have to do is send me an ask and I will add you! 

Masterlist 

If you enjoy my work, you could also show support by buying me a coffee! 

(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

The war was over. Voldemort was dead. The world was supposed to feel lighter… but it didn’t. The weight of it pressed against my chest, suffocating in its silence. Everyone called it a victory. They call it the start of a new era, but all I could think about was the people who weren’t here to see it. 

Fred. 

Colin. 

Lavender. 

Professor Lupin. 

Tonks. 

So many others whose names felt like open wounds whenever I thought of them. I had walked through the ruins of Hogwarts after the battle, stepping over broken stones and shattered glass. My shoes were damp with blood that would never fully wash away. There was no victory in war, just the cruel, indifferent reality of loss. And now? We were supposed to move forward. To rebuild. But how was I supposed to rebuild when I had lost so much? 

I curled up on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my chest tight. The house felt too quiet. No distant murmur of Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. No warmth of their presence, no familiar scent of morning tea or old books. They were gone. Not dead, but… gone. 

Because Hermione made them forget. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the lump in my throat. I knew why she had done it. It was to protect them, to keep them safe from Voldemort and the war. But now the war was over, and they had gone off to Australia, living their lives without us- without even knowing we existed! 

I should have fought harder to stop her. 

I should have begged her to find another way. 

Because now, it wasn’t just our parents who were gone. It was our home. Our childhood. Everything familiar, wiped away with a single spell. A soft knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. 

“Y/N?” Hermione’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. She knew. She always knew when something was wrong. 

I didn’t answer, but she took that as permission to enter. The door creaked open, and I felt the bed dip as she sat beside me. I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, my arms wrapped around myself as if that would hold me together. She didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch between us. Maybe she was waiting for me to say something. Maybe she just didn’t know how to fix this… how to fix me. 

Finally, I broke the silence. “Do you regret it?” My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. 

Hermione stiffened beside me. “Regret what?” 

I turned my head to look at her. “Making them forget us.” 

Her face fell. I could see it in her eyes… the way her breath caught, the way her fingers clenched against the fabric of her jeans. 

“I…” She swallowed hard. “I did what I had to do, Y/N.” 

I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s not an answer.” 

She sighed, running a hand through her curls. “Of course, I regret it. Every single day. I miss them too, you know.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she quickly steadied it. 

“But I couldn’t risk their lives. I couldn’t risk yours either.”

Tears burned at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

“And now they’re gone…” 

Hermione exhaled sharply. “They’re not gone. They’re just… they don’t remember us.” She reached for my hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“But we can find them. We can bring them back.” 

I turned my face away, blinking up at the ceiling again. 

“And what if they don’t want to come back? What if they don’t want us?” 

She hesitated, and that silence told me everything. 

We didn’t know what would happen. We didn’t know if Mum and Dad would ever want us again. 

Hermione took a shaky breath. “Everything’s going to be fine, Y/N.” 

I bit my lip hard, closing my eyes. The grief sat heavy in my chest, but Hermione was here. She was still here. For now, that had to be enough. So I nodded. Just once. Hermione didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, she shifted, hesitating for only a moment before lying down beside me. It reminded me of when we were kids- on nights when thunderstorms were too loud, or nightmares too real, she’d sneak into my bed and hold me close until I fell asleep. 

Now, she did the same. 

Her arms wrapped around me, warm and steady as if she could physically hold me together when I felt like I was breaking apart. I let out a shaky breath, finally allowing a few tears to slip free. She didn’t say anything, just held me, resting her chin on top of my head. 

“I miss them so much.” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know.” She murmured. “I do too.” 

We lay there in silence for a long time, the weight of everything down on us. But Hermione didn’t let go or pull away. 

“I’ll fix this, Y/N.” She finally said, her voice firm, full of quiet determination. 

“I’ll find them. I’ll restore their memories.” She tightened her hold on me, as if grounding herself in the promise. “I swear it.” 

I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her. So I let out a slow breath and whispered. 

“Okay.”  

For the first time since the war ended, I felt a sliver of hope. 

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs-blog1 @lover-of-books-and-tea @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches28 @kmc1989 @drw0301bieber @lady-of-lies @ravenmoore14 @ravenempress101 @cillianchamp @rowanthomasknapp @rachelxwayne @ready-4-fanfiction @madammarvellous-blog1 @in-slytherin-we-trust @accio-rogers @sambucky8 @bruisedfists-and-splitlips @answer-the-sirens @andreasworlsboring101 @vanessa-kom-skaikru @impulse-anchor @psamathegoesrawr @nighttimemoonlover

[linkedin-offficial]

a bit of an important announcement ‼️

since i have like 100× the followers on this blog than i do over on my main, im mentioning this here first!

i have commissions open, and im currently taking them! if you like and enjoy my art and could like to consider supporting me, check out my commissions info here!

or, if youd rather support me another way, i have a ca$happ ! anything is appreciated no matter what!!

and if you cant do either of those, a simple reblog would suffice!!! thank you for reading (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

‎

[heycrymeariver]

five and many more: a timeline summary

(For legal reasons, all of this is alleged.)

Ref. links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

1984, is the first time Neil Gaiman released a book. 

In 1985, he got married and started his career as a comic book writer and in 1986, he assaulted Julia Hobsbawm.

This took place in Chalk Farm, London, where he forcibly kissed her and shoved her down on the sofa at her own studio flat before she escaped. According to The Crown Prosecution Service, “sexual assault is where one person intentionally touches another person sexually without their consent. The touching can be done with any part of the body or with an object.” In her own words, she described it as “an aggressive, unwanted pass” and that she still remembers it even now. 

Through 1987 and 2002 he progressed his career and published the famous book Coraline. A new year happens and he is in his early-forties and is thriving off of the success of his several money-making works, at a book signing event in Sarasota, Florida. There he hits it off with a young 18 year old (K) and they start dating. Two years later, in 2005, with two more awards under his belt, he forcibly penetrated that young twenty year old who told him not to because of a painful infection.

After another two years, he and his first wife divorced.

It's 2012, five years later and one year into a new marriage and at another book signing, Neil, age 52, immediately assaulted Claire (pseudonym) with a non-consensual kiss. Throughout keeping contact Neil had escalated this with video and phone calls that had a heavy sexual connotation where he appeared to either be naked or tried to instigate something. All of this accumulated into sexually assaulting her on a tour bus. Neil’s contact with her lasted until 2014 where he had promptly accused her in a text message that she had used him for sex.

Within the same year, Neil had enough money to buy a property, and met Caroline Wallner, 55, and her at-the time current husband. With a deal to do odd jobs for Neil and his wife to live there until she could own a five-acre plot, it wasn’t long before things turned sour. A divorce in 2017 sent everything spiraling, with her former husband fired, she in a once financially stable position, was now completely dependent on Neil Gaiman who used that to his advantage. Using her lack of financial stability to get himself sexual favors, he coerced her into a sexual-only, notably uninformed BDSM-entering territory while she was emotionally vulnerable, not accepting denials. This lasted until the summer of 2021, and in December of that year she and him went to court, what awaited her was $275k of compensation and a non-disclosure agreement (nda).

It wouldn’t take long for another woman to experience Neil Gaiman’s repeated offenses as well because in February of 2022, Scarlett (a pseudonym), age 23, a newly hired nanny, was sexually assaulted in the bathtub at his house. Neil, age 61, climbed into the bathtub with her and coerced her into having sexual relations. He too, in his coercion of her, made her financially dependent on him and brought BDSM elements to an inexperienced young woman who could not say no.

Since July 3rd of this year, 2024, five women have come out with sexual assault allegations aimed at Neil Gaiman. They all have several things in common with each other: either being young and naive, a fan of his, or put in a vulnerable spot financially or emotionally. Throughout the years and according to the stories, Neil progressively gets more bold and aggressive in his attempts for sexual gain. There are many more stories out there and whispers on the internet of how predatory Neil Gaiman has been in the industry. However, focusing on the five women who came out to speak and pushing their voice is an important part of the discussion.

Staying silent will only protect his peace.

(If you want to help keep this topic alive, please check out this post by @taraljc to see what steps you can take.)